The sense that Arbus’ photographs contain an intangible physical presence of her, and that while looking at her images one can’t shake it, is a testament to the argument that Arbus did indeed reinvent the photograph in the wake of Robert Frank. (Frank’s work, as with all sucessful work, has that hypnotic reminder of his presence as well, but not with the same sense of stillness that Arbus brought. With Frank, I sense his continued hunger for looking, for seeing. His camera moves through the world, Arbus allows the world to move through her camera.

Reading that led to the following thought about my own work: the artificial landscapes I'm making aren't places where I might be found - they are places found in me.

While I'm at it, I'll make one more little leap. I'm reading "A Theory of /Cloud/" by Hubert Damisch:

"... Botticelli, who, he [Leonardo] related, decided that it was not worth bothering with a particular landscape since all he had to do was squeeze out a sponge on the required spot in order to produce the most satisfying representation."

Which brings me to Max Ernst, who's retrospective at the Met I saw the same morning as the Arbus show. Ernst's later work involved the often arbitrary application of paint using a method called frottage.

I think Ernst is the true spiritual forbearer of my mentor, William Newman. That exhibition explained a lot.